Gift
by geminigrl11
Summary: A little preseries schmoop.


This was a birthday gift for estei, my fellow Gemini. Previously posted at my lj back in June, but I've made some small adjustments.

Unbeta'd, which means I have no one to blame.

One line borrowed from _The Philadelphia Story,_ the single greatest romantic comedy of all time. Jimmy Stewart, people. Katharine Hepburn. CARY GRANT. If you've not seen it, you're missing out.

The usual disclaimers apply.

--oo--oo--oo--

_**Gift**_

It's late, and the tiny house at the edge of the dead-end road is dark.

Dean turns the lights off a few hundred yards out, lets the moon guide him. He even shuts the engine down before he reaches the end of the drive, coasts in on inertia and waits for the Impala to settle before sliding the gear shift into Park.

There's no other vehicle, which means Dad's not home. Dean feels a little curl of worry in his belly. He kept his cell phone on all night, and no one called. But Dad said he'd need Dean's help on this hunt, and now he's gone.

Dean shrugs it off. Chances are, Dad's out following up with one of their contacts, maybe having a beer. Dean gave up second-guessing him years ago; he's not about to start to now.

He hauls out his bag and heads toward the rear of the house, the front door still wedged shut. The landlord promised to fix it, but that was a full month's rent ago, and looking less likely by the day. Dean could do it himself, but Dad says it's probably safer to have that entrance blocked anyway. Keeps unexpected people—things—from getting in.

The back door swings open easy, quiet, and Dean takes extra care to make sure it closes the same way. Sam's always a light sleeper, even more so when he's left home alone, and Dean's feeling a little wave of older brother protectiveness at the moment. No worries; it won't last long. He'll be back to tormenting the kid, soon as sun's up again.

His bag comes off first; he settles it on the floor next to the scarred Formica table. Coat is next, and he hangs it over the top of one of the mismatched chairs. Light from the inside of the refrigerator blinds him momentarily when he opens it, but he grins when he sees a foil-wrapped plate, Sam's chicken scrawl of "EAT ME" written on a torn piece of envelope taped to the outside. _Smart ass._

He turns on the oven light to eat by, not realizing how hungry he is until the smell of warming food wafts out from the microwave. Sam was nice enough to leave him a big portion: meatloaf from scratch, box potatoes, canned peas. He washes it down with a big glass of milk, wishing for brownies. They'll have to buy a mix the next time they go shopping. Dean's definitely got more of a sweet tooth than Sam, but little brother can put away a piece or two when he wants to.

The hot water pipes clang and Dean frowns as he rinses off his plate. He'd love a shower, but it's so late and the plumbing's too loud.

Navigating the narrow hallway doesn't take long. Now that his eyes have adjusted, moonlight through the windows makes things bright enough, and there are only two doors this way: the bedroom he and Sam share and the bath. Dad's commandeered the foldout in the living room.

Dean chooses the door on the right first, pulls it shut before switching on the overhead. He washes off, brushes his teeth. Smiles when he thinks back on the last few hours.

It was a really great night.

When he walks into the bedroom, Sam's covered in blankets and shadow. He gives a tired, "Hey," and snuggles his face into the pillow. His eyes stay open, though, so Dean turns on the light.

Sam turns a little toward him, hair mussed, cheeks sleep-flushed. "D'you have fun?"

Dean grins. "Best thing in the world, Sammy."

Sam rolls his eyes but can't help grinning back. "Hedonist."

"Geek."

Sam huffs a little, but doesn't deny it.

"How was Model U.N.?" Dean shrugs off his button-down and peels out of the t-shirt underneath, looking for the sweats he usually sleeps in.

"Mathletes."

"Yeah, 'cause that sounds so much cooler." The sweats are puddled half-under the bed. Dean kicks off his jeans and pulls them on, stretching a little before he's ready to sink down into a too-soft mattress.

He glances back at Sam, realizing he hasn't answered the question. "So? How was _Mathletes_?"

Sam blinks and rolls over, mumbling all the way. There's a flash of something white, there and gone, barely noticeable.

"You want to say that again in English?"

The lump of vaguely Sam-shaped bedclothes shifts a little. "Didn't go."

Dean scowls. "Seriously? What happened to all your '_The fate of the free world is in danger if I can't be part of Nerdfest '99'_?'"

Sam's huffs again, slightly more annoyed. Kid's gotten good at that lately.

"Well?" Dean can be tenacious, when he's of a mind, and getting Sam to talk when he clearly doesn't want to always puts him of a mind. He sits at the foot of Sam's bed, pokes in the general vicinity of his ribs. Sam squirms away but doesn't answer, so Dean pokes again.

A tousled head peeks up from under the covers. Sam glares, but also looks kind of sheepish. "I was helping Dad with something."

As if that's an answer. Sam's given up a day of school—not just school but a field trip, one he'd had to beg to go on in the first place—and spent it with Dad? Without Dean?

No way.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "Spill."

Sam visibly hems and haws—it's more than a little funny to watch every thought play out in the set of his lips, the lines on his forehead, his _breathing__._ Good thing he's learned to be a better liar when it counts.

"I was in the computer lab this morning. Just, you know. Looking."

"Looking…" Dean prompts. Then lifts the other eyebrow. "You were researching? At school?"

"It's not a big deal." Sam pushes himself up, back against the wall, literally and figuratively. Although Dean's not quite sure why he's being so defensive. Hell, he's proud of the little runt. These days, Sam usually acts like hunting is only a step above sheering kittens. "Dad was looking for the wrong Andersens."

It all comes together in an instant, what this means. Where Dad is, what he's doing, the fact that Dean has shirked his duties.

Guilt submarines him. Dad could have called, yes, and Dean would have gone, even if it meant giving up the whole night and everything he'd planned. But Dean wasn't there, which meant Dad is alone and that is…not acceptable. Dean fumbles for his phone. "Where is he?"

Sam looks confused for a second, then relaxes into something uncomfortably close to understanding. "Dean, it's okay. It's all done."

Dean's up now, reaching for shoes, a sweatshirt, wondering what kind of weapons he should bring. "How long ago did he leave?"

"Dean!"

He doesn't stop moving until Sam grabs him, yanks him back to the bed. There's gauze around Sam's arm, just above where the sleeve of his shirt falls. Dean grabs back, wraps fingers around Sam's wrist and pulls up the cotton so he can see.

"What the hell is this?"

Sam tries to tug his arm away but Dean's not letting go.

"Would you just listen for a second and get your head out of your ass?"

Dean's not sure what makes him stop. Could be the way Sam's throwing his balance off, pulling like that. Could be hearing Sam use Dad's favorite expression; same tone, same scowl, same growly voice. Under different circumstances, it'd be fairly hilarious.

"Dad and I took care of it. Dug the graves, salted and burned the bodies. It's finished. Everything's fine."

"Then where is Dad?"

"He left for Jefferson's. Some book he's been looking for."

Dean finally sits, though he's not letting Sam escape that easily. "So, what's this from?"

Sam ducks his chin a little. "It's just a scrape. One of the spirits took after Dad, got him pinned in the grave while he was digging. There was some glass on the edge when I hauled him out. Beer bottle or something."

Sam gives a snort that sounded suspiciously like _kids._

Dad wouldn't have left Sam alone if it were something serious, but still. It doesn't sit right, knowing Sam was hurt and Dean hadn't been able there help. "D'you clean it?"

"Hydrogen peroxide and antibiotic. Seriously, Dean. It's nothing."

Sam's not lying, Dean can tell. It isn't easy, though, letting it go. "Why didn't he call me? I would have been here. You shouldn't have had to miss out on—"

"I didn't miss out." Sam smiles, a tiny little pleased-embarrassed smile. "I offered to go. So you wouldn't have to skip your…" He makes a weird circular gesture with his hand that makes no sense at all, but Dean gets it anyway. And laughs.

"You're the damndest kid, Sammy." He reels Sam into a headlock that's really maybe more of a hug. Not that he's admitting anything.

Sam leans into it, hair tickling Dean's chin. Not admitting anything, either.

He pushes Sam back, both of them grinning, tells him to shove over and sits next to him on the bed.

"Let me tell you what a night with Estelle is really all about…"

He launches into the story of how he came to spend the evening with the sweetest little piece of American sheet metal next to the Impala, the memory of the '65 Corvair's wheel beneath his hands one he'll keep close for a long time to come.

But never as close as the little brother sitting next to him.

_Fin_


End file.
